


Ulysses Logs

by meanoldauthor



Series: Mean Old Lady [16]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 15:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13639440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: A handful of shorts originally posted to Tumblr, of these two assholes getting to know each other better. May or may not be updated as time passes.





	1. Chapter 1

“No, it _ain’t_ a perfect solution,” Adal said, nearly standing on the spike to drive it into the ground. “But it’s what we got, my man.”

Ulysses watched her activate the device, checking that it was communicating with her Pip-Boy. “Relying on Big Empty tech…”

Adal picked up the rest of the bundle, slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m real tired of that line, Ulysses. Anything to help contain these Tunneler freaks. The size, uh…size-em…”

“Seismometers.”

“Them. They’re only early warning, not prevention, but I’ll take it..” She squinted at a building leaning against the side of the canyon. “I wanna get a few of these higher, just to cover more ground. We got a way up?”

He nodded towards a faint path in the rubble. “Don’t trust my watch?”

Behind him, she rolled her eyes. “I trust you more’n anyone, my man, but there’s only _one_ of you. Might be thousands of _them_ ”

They bickered for the entire height of the building, winding through lopsided offices and stairwells, using a half-crushed radio tower as a ladder. A break in the wall put a rock ledge an easy step away, and she scuffed at it, checking that it was more dirt than stone. “…Militia project’s going better than I hoped, anyway. People are willin’ to defend the Mojave, and as a whole, so long as they’re getting fed and supplied. Securitrons are just backup.”

“An army, under your banner?” he said, arms folded.

“A _defensive force,_ thanks all the same,” she said. Adal looked up as she set the end of the spike in the dirt. “Funny, thought you’d approve of people over—”

He almost yelled as she put her weight on the spike, rushing towards her. She leapt back, hand going for her rifle—only to be brought up short, her duster pinned. He knelt beside her, pulling the seismometer from the ground, running the edge of the duster through his hands.

“Hell’s bells man, don’t _do_ that!” She scowled at him, still holding the duster as he stood. “What the fuck?”

He tugged at the denim, pulling threads back in line. “Didn’t hole it, just forced through,” he said. He dropped It, frowning. “Careless.”

Adal took a deep breath. “I’m—” She shut her mouth on it and held up her finger between them. “We’re both cranky because we haven’t eaten, I’m making lunch.”

He followed her back into the building, taking the contraption made of tin cans that she fished out of her pack. “Accident,” he muttered, finding a flat piece of rock to set it on.

“Yes, it was,” she said, breaking the leg off what had probably been a chair, using her ax to break it into splinters. “Apology accepted. Just thought I had some critter about to drop down on me, right?”

“Could be more careful of it,” he said, watching her light the first few pieces and poke them through a funnel in the side of the cans. “Won’t find another duster like it, easy.”

“Where’d you even get it?” she asked, crouching to set a pot on top of the stove. It was too dented to sit level. “Didn’t make it? Looks just like yours…”

“Found. Salvaged,” he said, retrieving the spikes from the ledge. “Blackjack was mine.”

“Tidy work on that. Got a bit of art in you,” she said, peeling open a can of Cram. “Went to a fair bit of trouble on it, even.”

He wasn’t looking at her, fussing over leaning the spikes against the wall. “Seemed worth the effort.”

“Just found it, huh,” she said. He grumbled under his breath, and she turned her grin into a thoughtful frown, concentrating on slicing the Cram into the pot.. “Just found this jacket looks just like yours, sleeves and all. Not looking for it specific or anything, I bet. Damn good luck, stumbling across one just like it.”

“Good jacket,” he said, sitting next to the stove. “Thought to give you a mantle. Reminder.”

“Oh, no, hey, It’s a _great_ duster,” she said, pulling it a little closer. “I try’n take care of it. I like it a lot, wear it every day.”

“Hn.” He let his mask fall against his chest, rubbing at the mark it left on his face—and hiding his mouth. “Better shape than I expected, then.”

“Ah, come on, I was distracted is all,” she said, poking the meat around the pot with her knife

Ulysses fed a few more pieces of wood into the stove, shaking his head with a sober expression. “Good way to get killed, in the Divide.”

“I’m sure you’d make it a touching funeral.”

He sighed. “Here lies the Courier, hole in her duster, glad to have died before facing _me_ for it…”

Adal chuckled, and he trailed off. The smell of frying Cram was almost appetizing. “Was just thinking it’s nice coincidence you found another one, to be a gift.” She busied herself with her pack. “Unless, y’know, you liked it so much you wanted to share, or…”

“Seemed… Appropriate.” Ulysses wasn’t looking at her, a little too stiff as he stared out at the ruins.

“So what do I get you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her grin. “What do you…”

“Oh, c’mon.” She tugged at the lapels. “Piece of prewar salvage, beautiful condition, real practical to me, picked out special because it was somethin’ _you_ loved. Somethin’ given honest and out of respect.”

Ulysses wasn’t quite looking at her. “Yes…”

She took a deep breath, trying not to laugh. “Where I’m from, buddy, you came on to me like a starry-eyed teenager, couldn’t wait for her parent’s blessing.”

His mouth was open, ready to speak, but instead covered his face with a hand. “Not my intention—”

“Oh, hell, you went at me for _days_ about sending messages _I_ didn’t intend,” she said, cackling. “When’s the wedding, my man?”

“—not that kind of gift. I—”

“Who’ll officiate? I hear the King does nice ceremonies for a reasonable—”

“—supposed to be a symbol. Take part of me, the Divide—”

“You listening to yourself? Because that sounds a lot like—”

He had both hands over his face. “—lessons here, out into the Mojave. Never thought I’d see…”

Adal stopped mid-breath, sarcasm withering on her tongue. He was watching her between his fingers. “That is the most…dramatic, useless…” her mouth worked as she hunted for a word, and finally spat, “ _romantic_ piece of crap I have _ever_ heard, you…you mushy lump of _sweetbreads_.”

“Of—” He raised his head, sitting taller, but his mouth pressed tight on a grin. “Can’t call a man _that_.”

“Watch me, sweetbreads!” she said, dumping a pouch of precooked MRE noodles over the Cram.

His hands were over his mouth again, but she could see a rare few laugh lines around his eyes, a slightly strangled sound.

“Should put your mask back on, if you’re gonna cough like that,” she said, but leaned over to elbow him. He doubled over, shoulders shaking. Adal snorted, and he gave up, laughing full-throated and rich, the sound of it spurring her on.

She laughed until she hiccuped, leaving him soundlessly struggling to breathe as she fought to sip from her canteen without choking. “Ain’t that funny,” she wheezed as he sat up, wiping at his face. There was a smell of burning, and she pulled the pot off the stove. “It ain’t.”

“Is,” he managed, trying to get himself under control. She poked to the bottom of the pot, trying to assess the damage. He shrugged when she showed him, and she dumped half of it into a bowl.

A few bites in, Ulysses broke the silence. “Still wore it.”

Adal paused, a bite of noodle still stretching from her mouth to the pot. She slurped it up and wiped at her mouth. “Still wore it.”

He didn’t look at her, frowning thoughtfully into the bowl, and she smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

The door to the silo clanked open. Chin on her arm on her knees, Adal lifted a hand to wave. “Evenin’. Hope you like mole rat.”

“I’ll eat mole rat,” Ulysses said, taking a seat next to her. “What brings you?”

“Nice to see you too,” she said, giving the pot a stir. “Heard rumors about some hermit livin’ down this way, tells people not to go into the canyon. Wondered if you’d seen him.”

He snorted at that, reaching into a knapsack. “Keep my eyes open,” he said, setting a stack of books a safe distance from the flames. Gingerly holding the edge of the pot, he peered inside, made an appreciative _hn. “Might_ like mole rat.”

“Base flattery,” she said, thumbing through the books. “It’ll get you everywhere.” She pulled one free, warped from moisture. “Oh _hell_ yes, I’m missing this one!”

“Which?” She handed it to him, and he examined it; slimmer than the rest, the print inside larger. “This is a child’s book,” he said, frowning at the picture of a heroic man in a hat on the cover.

“Oh, come on, you’re the one who brought it up here,” she said, taking it back. She pointed to a number on the spine. “Number seventeen! I’ve got all the rest, and eighteen and nineteen, and I been waiting on those ‘til I found this one…”

“Was stuck to the one under it,” he said, holding it up. There was a bit of paper from the other book stuck to the front. “Hoping to get it off cleanly…”

“You can still read it,” she said, gingerly working the cover open.

“Not respectful…” he muttered, but set it aside. The pot was starting to bubble, and he pulled it off. She didn’t notice, already a page in. “Nineteen of them? Lot of effort to find so many.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Ulysses watched her a moment, holding her place with a finger, a faint smile on her lips as she read. “What are they, then?”

“Mm.” She looked up, letting the book fall shut. “Oh, man, they’re fun. They’re about this guy, right, who’s an archa-yee-olog-ist—”

“A what?” He took the book from her, looking at the back. “An archaeologist.”

“What? No, that ain’t how it’s spelled,” she said.

“It’s how it’s said.” He pulled a battered tin bowl out of her bag.

“You weren’t alive in Old World times, how do you know,” she said, pulling it out of his hand. “So anyway, this guy, the archa-yee-olog-ist, travels around the—”

“Archaeologist,” Ulysses said, digging for a spoon.

“Don’t be ignorant! So, he travels around the world and finds artifacts—”

“ _Ignorant?_ ”

“Yeah. So a bunch of these artifacts have magic powers, and there’s these _other_ arch—”

“Archaeologists,” Ulysses said, scraping up the last dregs of patience.

“You’re getting it _wrong,_ my man. The ar—”

“Language hasn’t shifted that much,” he said, frowning. “From a dead language; _arkhaios_ for ancient, and—”

“Then if it’s dead, who knows how they said it. Anyway—”

“—account or story—”

“—and she double-crossed him in a place called—”

“—never heard someone mutilate the word so deep, so where—”

“—archa-yee-olog-ist—”

“Stop!”

Adal put her chin on her fist, scowling. “You asked what it was.”

Ulysses took a deep breath. “And now trying to _correct_ a mistake. Nothing gained in drifting things away from ever being _intelligible._ And you _insist_ on…” He narrowed his eyes. Adal pulled her lips between her teeth and bit down on them.

He threw the spoon at her. Adal lifted a hand to ward it off, the laugh finding its way out through her nose as a painful snort.

Ulysses stalked away, back to her as he rubbed at his face. Adal lay on her side, arms over her head in case the bowl followed, wheezing.

She had almost recovered by the time he sat back down, rubbing at her side and poking at the stew. “My man,” she said, swallowing down a chuckle. “I’m sorry, but your face—”

He sighed, scowled as he spooned out half. “Cruel of you.”

Adal reached over, traced a thumb over the laugh lines on his cheek. He frowned more deeply, trying to force them away, as he passed her her supper.


	3. Chapter 3

Adal settled the neck of her duster wider, tried to judge the size of the opening. She snagged a towel off the shelf, draping it over her head and tucking the ends in. Almost worked, if she—

There was motion in the mirror behind her, and she whipped it off. Ulysses gave it a look as she wiped it on her already-dry hands, tossed it on the edge of the sink. “Morning, my man. Still got water in the reservoir, if you’re here for a shower.”

“Cleaned up last night.” His footsteps echoed in the silo washroom, and she tried to sidle away. “Still damp?” he said, running is fingers through her hair.

She sighed as he got an arm around her waist, stopping her sideways escape. “No, just…tryin’ somethin’.” He draped the towel back over her head, and she glowered at him in the mirror, a ghost of a smile on his face. “And when did you shower?”

“A priestess, for this Temple?” he murmured. “Sleep found you fast, last night. Left you to it..”

“I wasn’t that…”

“Hadn’t even moved, I came back.”

She pulled the towel off and flipped it over his head, hiding the smug look on his face. “Fuck off?”

He chuckled low in his throat, catching it and leaning down to kiss her. She gave in, leaning back against him, letting him hold her closer. “What are you trying, then?”

“Seeing how a hood sits, with this,” Adal said, tugging on the duster. “Just kinda…thinking.”

“Hn. Trying to hide this?” He played with her hair, grown awkwardly shaggy.

“S’what got me thinking about it,” she said. “Walker thing. Having a hood.”

He tipped his head, watching her watch him in the glass. “What does it mean to you, this hood?”

“Means you’re an adult. ’Least, that’s making it was about.” She shrugged, shifted her weight. He moved with her, turning the motion into a low side-to-side sway. “I dunno. Ain’t important.”

He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “No?” She closed her eyes, waited, savoring the warmth of him against the slight chill of the silo. “Waited…years, before even growing it,” he said, low. She looked up, watched him run a hand through his braids. “Not worthy of our ways, after…”

“Yeah.” She caught his hand as he lowered it, pressed it against her chest.

He sighed, ruffling her hair. “Figured at the last, was better than letting us die quiet. Lost causes, only ones worth holding. Someone should carry that history.”

_That blame,_ she heard in the weight of his voice. She pressed his hand tighter over her heart. “It help?”

She felt the breath he took, stopped short to hold. At last, “Kept them alive.”

Adal nodded, curling her fingers around his. “Part of it was practical. Kept the sun and rain off. What it meant, at a look, was that you picked a role in the tribe, were gonna contribute and carry your weight in full.”

“And your role?” he asked.

“Hunter,” she said. “Leather hood, for hunters. Never had the hands for mending. Foraged enough with my da, I considered it, but saw ma be a hero with that rifle of hers enough times, I guess.”

She looked up long enough to catch his face. Reflective, lost, Ulysses slowed their sway, cheek resting against her head. “And they…?”

“I don’t know,” she said. They slowed almost to a stop. “And…?”

Softly, barely more than a breath, “No—I…”

“M’sorry, I shouldn’t…”

“Fair question.”

She reached up to stroke his face, and he leaned into the touch, holding her tighter. “Doesn’t mean it needs asking.”

Ulysses tipped her face up, and she shifted to let him lean down, place a light, lingering kiss. “And a burden better shared,” he murmured, lips brushing hers.

She just breathed, his forehead resting on hers, very glad he was holding her up. “Better shared,” she said.

“Mmm.” A hand came up to stroke her hair, and she sighed as he draped the towel over her eyes “And what hide for your head, my hunter?”

“Fire gecko,” she said, as he let her go, fussing with how it hung. “Y’know, it stopped being funny when—”

“And any meaning, in a fire gecko?” he said, a hand slipping closer, finding the soft spot between her ear and her throat.

“Thaammnn—” she brushed his hand away. “That I was a jackass with a chip on my shoulder.” Another chuckle, low and pleased, and she scowled. “You wanna make something of it?”

“No few things I would make with—” The towel took him full across the face.

“I don’t wanna need another shower!” she said, headed towards the door. He didn’t follow, and she turned back.

Ulysses had the towel over his head, holding it shut at his throat, examining himself in the mirror. “Practical.”

She snorted. “What a forager you’d be.” He raised an eyebrow in the glass. “Salvaged cloth, out of an Old World place, somewhere untouched. Somewhere you’d’ve gone alone, spoken with the ghosts there, gotten their blessing.”

He turned to face her. Adal smiled, soft. “Hell of a forager, you’d be.”


	4. Chapter 4

Ulysses reached for her as they walked along the cliff. Adal gave him a cross look as he laid the backs of his fingers on her throat. “Y’know, some people might call that rude.”

“Would you?” he sad, letting his hand fall.

She caught it as it did, snuck a kiss on the back of it. “ _Maybe_.”

Ulysses almost, almost smiled. “Were humming,” he said.

“No, I wasn’t.” She sighed at his look, and he chuckled. “Well, then I didn’t _realize_ I was humming, huh?”

“Sounded like a song,” he said, voice mild.

“Not… any one particular,” she said, rubbing at her throat. She stopped next to the firepit, propped up the bundle of wood on her back. “Just habit, I guess.”

“Hn.”

“Oh, _hn._. If you have a question, just ask it,” she said, taking the roughest plank and starting to split it with her ax.

“Ha!” He dropped the roll of canvas on his shoulder. “Walker habit, then?” He shrugged at her look. “Told me to ask.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, once he turned away. “We’d, uh…We’d sing, to keep everyone in step.” The ax bit a little harder than necessary into the plank, and she had to wrench it loose. “More or less lived on our feet. Could only go as fast as our slowest person, yeah, but that’s usually the Elder leading the jody, so it all just sort of evened out.”

“Whole tribe kept that way?” He propped up a couple pieces of wood, judging them against the size of the canvas.

“Not everyone at once,” she said, stacking the bits of plank. “We broke into bands of thirty, forty people, manageable groups. Sounded good, when all of us threw in,” she said, wistful at the last. Ulysses seemed to distracted by his project, frowning at the beginnings of a structure. “Man, come on, I keep saying you should just go down to Primm. That wood’s so irradiated you’ll get cancer just sleeping under it.”

“Enough here,” he said. She put her chin on a fist and watched him sketch a rough sort of awning shape out if it. “What were they about?”

“What were what?”

“Your songs.”

Adal stifled the sigh halfway through, but he was too distracted by his project to notice. “Histories, mostly,” she said. He seemed to prick his ears up at the word, half-watching her. “Some were common-sense things, like watching weather, or skills like tanning a hide. Didn’t walk to those very often, they’re more work songs. Still had to know ‘em, though. But a good half were histories.”

“Hn.” He held one of the long pieces against an upright one, and looked around.

“Nails,” Adal said.

Ulysses closed his eyes.

“Nash’ll have nails.”

He sighed and laid the wood down.

“Probably a hammer, too, unless you really feel like going and fighting a ghoul over one.”

He grumbled under his breath, came to sit next to her. “Have the canvas, at least.”

“Might not for long, the way the wind gets here,” she said, leaning on his arm.

“It’ll do, for now.” He leaned into her touch, looking thoughtfully out at the canyon. “Where do they start, your histories?”

“Oh, hell,” she said. “Broad strokes, up til the War. Walker didn’t exist until after, so that’s when most of the jodies are.”

“What do they tell of it?”

Adal leaned away to look at him. He looked back, earnest, honest. She stood. “Come on.”

He hesitated. She held her hands out, and he let her pull him to his feet. “Going to Primm?”

“If you want. Or back down,” she said. “Wanna know our song, I’ll teach you. Just can’t sing sitting still.”

She almost smiled, at how he brightened at the words. He glanced at the silo door down the path, considering, and she steeled herself for another descent.

“Primm,” he said at last. “Fewer distractions.”

She did smile then, towards the path out. “Footfall’s on the beat, or three beats and fourth is silent, if needed. Repeat it back, as we go,” she said, setting her feet for the first stride. He came up beside, waiting. Adal took the first step, the song itself a step at a time, rising, falling, lilting on the last word. “ _Zhes sta he’er, wes a zta._ ”

“Zes ta—”

“ _Zhes,_ ” she said, stopping, “sta.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Try again.” One step, two: “ _Zhes sta_ …”

“Zes—”

“ _Zh_. Breathier,” she said, giving up and walking normally. “Hells bells, man, glad it’s a long way to Primm.”

He sighed, but still kept abreast. “Doesn’t translate?”

“The beat goes wrong, doesn’t rhyme,” she said. “Starts at the start, ‘This is where we are from’.”

He narrowed his eyes, concentrating. “ _Zhes sta he’er…_ ”

“Hey,” she said, letting the smile into it. It sounded good, in his voice. “ _Ama salve, wes proba._ ”

“ _Ama salve_ …”

And for once, the walk back towards the Mojave wasn’t so hard.


	5. Chapter 5

Whatever it was, it woke Adal with her heart in her throat, a layer of sweat on her. The fear took a moment to fade, for her to remember where she was, that the man beside her wasn’t a threat, that she was safe, even deep in the Divide. The old Temple silo was closed off, secure, it was just the two of them…

The warmth of him beside her was enough to make her hair stand on end, the sound of his breathing too loud, too close—he would wake with her, ask what was wrong, and she would say…what? Bad dreams? And he would roll over and hold her, too close, too hot, and think it was a comfort, not understand as she pulled away—

Adal slipped out from under the blanket, bare feet making no noise on the floor. Her duster was folded on the back of a chair—his doing—and she didn’t make a sound as she fished her lighter and a cigarette out of a pocket. She worked the latch on the door gently, eased it closed behind her without even a click.

There was a chair down the hall, with an ashtray sitting on the floor next to it. She leaned on the wall beside it, the lighter dazzling in the dim, sparse lights of the silo, the cold of the metal eating through her shirt and sending goosebumps up her bare legs.

She sighed a billow of smoke, imagining the tension going out with it. Cold, calm. Safe.

Alone.

Adal closed her eyes and focused on her breath, the pull of muscle and bone, counting heartbeats as they slowed. It was getting better, little by little. Easier. She’d woken up sobbing, one of their first nights together, with him looming over her. There was still a scar on his lip and a bloodstain on the sheets.

A breath in, ribs expanding, belly pushing down, hold; breath out, chest falling and muscles relaxing. It was hard to find time to see Doctor Usanagi these days, but some of the simple tricks still helped. A wry smile found its way to her lips, remembering the gentle scolding to smoke maybe _one_ less cigarette a day, to breathe a little deeper.

Ulysses would appreciate it. He’d admitted the tobacco she bought off Raul was better than most, but still sat upwind of her when he could, shifted away. She didn’t see what was so foul about it, unless the smell reminded him of—

The door to their room opened, almost as silently as she had. Ulysses glanced down the other way before looking to her, stepping into the hall. “Can’t sleep?”

Adal held up her cigarette, other hand tucked under her elbow. “Got up to pee, thought I’d make it worthwhile.”

“Hn. Stressful,” he said, padding over to her. Adal tried not to tense as he got close. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if he noticed, but he stopped just in reach, leaning a shoulder on the wall. He reached out to brush the goosebumps on her arm. “Got a fix for this.”

“Ah, it’s bracing,” she sad, leaning down to flick ash into the ashtray. She had to turn away from him to do it, and she hid a shiver. Glad she hadn’t sat down; he was still taller, standing, but having to crane up at him would just make it worse. “Go lay down, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Better I cool off with you. Might melt, you climb in like this.”

Her mouth quirked, but it faded as he put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. It was almost burning, holding her down, intrusive.

She breathed out with the thought, looked at him fully. The light only threw deeper shadow on his face, the faintest strain of worry visible on it.

Adal breathed back in, pressing her hand over his. The touch was warm, welcoming, a quiet concern in it. He met her eyes, saw him breathe with her, a steady calm in him.

It felt good. She let it.

She dropped the cigarette butt in the ashtray, let him pull her close a moment, resting her forehead on his chest before heading back to bed.


End file.
